


Hiccups

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's made her cry.  Again.</p><p>Written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">Game of Thrones Kink Meme</a>.  </p><p>The prompt was:  Jaime/Sansa; future.  Dangerous, unpredictable, hi-I'm-still-an-asshole-what-even-is-redemption Jaime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiccups

He’s made her cry again.   The third time since they rode from the Vale two days ago- his shoulder still aches from the pummeling he’d received from the wench after reducing the little lady to tears yesterday evening.  But she’s off on patrol now, leaving him to deal with the sniffling girl all on his own.  
  
He can’t even rightly recall what he said to upset her; something off-handed and derisive about the North or Winterfell or her poor, dying, damnable family line, no doubt.  Cruel thoughtlessness comes to him as easily as breathing now, and vow or no vow, he really cannot be bothered to curb his tongue to spare Lady Sansa’s delicacy.  
  
And so he sits and watches her blue eyes grow limpid, watches her lower lip tremble and her cheeks flush pink.  She’s holding fast so far, but just one breath, two- and here are the tears, small and crystalline, flowing down the high slopes of her cheeks.  
  
Jaime rolls his eyes and quirks a single eyebrow.  “Gods, girl.  And here I hoped you might be made of sterner stuff.”  
  
Her face darkens into a distressing shade of vermilion.  “You...you are no gentleman, ser.”  
  
“Truer words were never spoken, my lady,” he quips.  But he has trouble keeping a little grin off of his face- she’s turning redder and redder as she tries to keep from sobbing.  A bit of clear mucus trickles from her nose, combining with the stickiness of the drying tears- she’s really quite a sight, and he wonders why she doesn’t even trouble to wipe her face with the sleeve of her gown.  Finally, he pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his breeches and extends it to her.    
  
“Take it.”  
  
The girl only shakes her head, auburn curls flying this way and that.  “I’m...I’m not crying,” she sputters, and he laughs aloud.  
  
“Aren’t you?  Then I suppose you must be taken with some hideous affliction that causes the face to leak.  If that’s the case, we’ll just leave you off at the side of the road and let nature have at you.”  She still makes no move to take the handkerchief, and he waves it just in front of her nose.  “Come on.  Dry yourself off.”  
  
But she just narrows her eyes at him, even as she sniffs and sighs.  Her nose and throat are filling up, and she starts to cough- _oh no, I didn’t go searching the bloody Seven Kingdoms for you just to have you choke to death on your own snot._ Jaime feels an incendiary twinge as his patience, scarcely existent even under the best of circumstances, frays and frays.  He whips the handkerchief at her once more, this time hitting her under the chin.  Her jaw clenches, her hands ball into fists, she sucks in labored breath after labored breath.  
  
And then a squeaking little sound: a hiccup.  

 

He does not know why, but it’s enough to snap the thread.  
  
His right arm sweeps around her shoulders, pulling her roughly into him as he presses the handkerchief to her nose.  She struggles and squirms, but she’s no match for him in strength- he hears his own voice in a low, rasping growl:  “Blow.  Your.  Nose.”  
  
And she does, with such violence that he catches a glimpse of blood on the white of his handkerchief.  He continues to hold it to her face, scrubbing the soft material over her nose until she reaches up to pry at his fingers.  “I...I can’t breathe...” she cries out in muffled tones, the hiccups interrupting almost every syllable.  
  
Jaime drops his hand from her face but keeps his arm tight around her.  Sansa glowers at him, all stubborn, childish indignation, red-faced and panting, her hair mussed, her eyes shining...  
  
And he is suddenly acutely aware of the soft press of her breasts against his side- with the exception of Brienne, he hasn’t been so close to a woman since before he left King’s Landing.  Nothing but unpleasant, restless nights gripping his cock with his off-hand, listening to Peck and Pia fucking in the corner, trying and failing to keep from thinking of Cersei, Cersei and Lancel and Kettleblack and Moon Boy...  
  
He feels a stiffening in his breeches- it takes next to nothing these days, the mere sight of a decently attractive woman in a vaguely-clinging dress, and he goes hard as stone.  Sansa’s still staring and sniffing and hiccuping- if for no other reason than to silence those bloody hiccups, Jaime pulls her closer and presses his mouth to hers.    
  
She squeals and bats at his shoulders, but he only kisses her harder.  When he finally lets her break away for air, he listens...and he laughs.  
  
“You ought to be thanking me- you can breathe without squeaking now.”  
  
Her plush red lips part, and he expects a diatribe about his vile manners and complete lack of propriety, expects to laugh in her face when she’s through-   
  
But instead, she twists her fingers in his hair and pulls him to her.  She draws his lower lip into her mouth and sucks, shifting her weight until her hips are flush against his.  He drops his left arm to grip her arse and rock her into his hardness; she bites down on his lip, and he moans, his golden hand catching in her red, red hair, knocking against her skull.  
  
In spite of the undeniable pleasure her body brings to him- he reaches up to take her breast in his hand, and Gods, she’s soft and supple and perfect- there’s a jarring surety to her movements, a clear practice- he thinks of how he found her in the Vale, of the strange game she’d been playing with Petyr Baelish; she is so obviously used to teasing, used to coquetry, and he feels a burst of anger working in tandem with lust to heat his blood.  
  
He flips her on her back, flattening her beneath him, all but grinding his erection between her legs.   “Don’t play with me,” he snarls.   
  
Because there is nothing amusing about this- he realizes it more with each passing moment.  If he were to fuck some whore or servant, that would be nothing but revenge, revenge for Cersei- _LancelKettleblackMoonBoy._.. But Sansa is something else entirely.  Of course, chivalry demands that he fall to his knees and beg pardon for his forwardness, that he never lay a hand on her again and that he guard against anyone else who would so trespass.    
  
But he spits on chivalry now, pisses on the courtly idea of knighthood.  He has offered himself to this girl, offered her his sword and his presence and his sharp tongue and quick temper, and what he offers her now is a binding- he cannot take this lightly, he never has and never will.   _I’m giving myself to her, and she damned well better not refuse..._  
  
She does not refuse.    
  
He thrusts into her, deeper each time and hard, hard enough to hurt.  It’s obvious that she is no maiden; she’s too slick, too eager, and her hips move up to meet him with a precise timing that can only come from experience.  He knows not whether to be relieved or upset by the revelation, but his thoughts fall away when she buries her little wolf-claws into the skin of his shoulderblade and wraps one leg around his lower back.  “More,” she whispers, and he swallows the word in a brutal kiss, teeth nipping and scraping at her soft, pretty lips.    
  
As my lady wishes, he thinks with more bitterness than he’d have expected.  The thrusts come faster and faster, and he winces from the sharp collision of her hipbones against his.  A brief glance at her face; she’s crying again, the tears mingling with sweat on her glowing cheeks.  But she only holds tighter to him, pushing up as he pushes down, her breathy gasps now coming on voice, little shrieks and cries that only serve to inflame him further.  
  
Jaime starts to kiss away the dampness on her face, but it’s too gentle, and she turns her head away with a huff of displeasure.  And so he moves down to her throat, sucking on the white skin until it blushes violet, his incisors making a constellation of dents on the smooth surface.  He bites down too hard, and a bit of blood spurts into his mouth; dark, dark red, as dark as her hair in the candlelight.   
  
“Ser Jaime...” she sighs, and he reaches up to grab her face, forcing his left thumb into her mouth.    
  
“Just Jaime.”  For there is nothing knightly here; he nearly laughs at the memory of the illusions he’d held, just a few days prior, of being a legend in the White Book, Goldenhand the Just.  He looks up and sees the lesson reflected in Sansa’s clear blue eyes, the lesson that it’s taken him five-and-thirty years to learn, the lesson forced upon this girl at fifteen- _words are wind, and dreams even less than that.  
_   
And yet he finds himself able to make her a promise of sorts, as he trembles over her and releases his seed, letting her taste her own blood on his lips.  “My lady,” he breathes into her mouth, and she knots her fingers in his hair to pull him away.    
  
“Sansa,” she replies, eyes flashing, face red with tear stains and the burns from his beard, neck mottled and breasts covered in splotches.  He’s no longer hard, but he stays inside her for as long as he can, gaze sweeping over her figure.  The girl lying beneath him is no symbol, no ideal, no “last chance for honor,” but just a flesh-and-blood woman, warm and breathing and tangible and _real._    
  
Brienne will pitch a fit when she returns, but Jaime can’t find it in himself to care.  He lies atop Sansa, twisting enough to keep from crushing her chest, and listens as she tries to catch her breath.  She turns her face into the pillow, and he cannot tell whether she’s started to cry again ( _is this the fifth time I’ve made her cry, or the sixth?_ ) - but then there’s a high-pitched peep: the hiccups are back.    
  
He thinks to instruct her to hold her breath, even considers slipping his left hand down between her legs to provide a suitable distraction- but in the end, Jaime just remains draped over her, feeling the erratic fluttering of her abdomen, watching the bizarre contractions of her throat, marveling over how the simple act of breathing can become so flawed and labored and uncomfortable and imperfect.  
  
There’s something about it that Jaime finds strangely fitting, and he turns his head to place a kiss on her brow, smiling a crooked smile into her skin.

 


End file.
